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“You okay?” I finally asked.
“Yeah. Just…took me by surprise.”
I nodded. “You were…” Powerful and raw and fucking real. “…Good.”
I winced at the flimsy, pathetic word. She deserved better feedback. But it was either tell her, You shook me to the bone in a way I’ve never felt before and I couldn’t take my eyes off you. Or tell her, You were good. Nothing in between.
“Thanks,” she said. She shivered, even though her coat was buttoned up now. “I should go.”
I moved out of the way to let her pass, suddenly aware I was a virtual stranger cornering her in a dark alley.
She started past me, then stopped.
“Is that why you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Save all your words for the stage?”
I stared.
“Because it’s a catharsis, isn’t it?” she said. “It’s telling your story without really telling it.”
What story lay behind the one you told tonight? I wanted to ask. But whatever subtext Willow’d been operating off of to give us that performance, it wasn’t a story for a casual talk behind an old theater. Or for me. Still, I wanted to tell her something of my truth too. Give something back.
Forget it. Also not for casual talk behind a theater.
I stuck my cigarette between my lips to keep from saying more than “Yeah, I guess.”
“Is that why you don’t talk much?”
“Maybe,” I said, taking another drag, “Or maybe I just have nothing to say.”
“I doubt it,” she said. “But I get it too.”
“You’re going to get Ophelia,” I said.
“Really?” Her eyes lit up, and right then, she was beautiful with the hope radiating off her. Rays that bounced off me, filling my head with possibility. If she were Ophelia, I’d spend the next two months rehearsing with her. Acting with her. Having this untouchable beauty on my stage.
And that was too much hope for a poor bastard like me.
“Yeah, you might get the part,” I said, putting a hard edge in my voice. “But one monologue isn’t the same as an entire Shakespeare play. You’ll have to show up to every damn rehearsal. You’ll have to take it seriously. Because it might’ve been a whim or something for you, but it’s fucking important to me.”
She bristled a little, her chin thrusting out. “It’s not a whim,” she said, an edge in her own words. “It’s important to me, too. And cocky much? What makes you so sure you’re going to get a part?”
My edge crumbled and I laughed around my Winston. The ugly yellow light from Nicky’s Tavern turned Willow’s hair to gold. The urge to bury my hands in that hair was so strong, I had to take another drag.
“I’ll get it because there’s no one else Martin will trust with it.”
“That’s not the only reason,” Willow said. “You have to know how good you are.”
I sighed and chucked my cigarette down and ground it out with my heel.
She cocked her head. “You don’t want to talk about that either?”
“No, because it’s boring. It is what it is. Acting is how I’m going to get the fuck out of Harmony. Beyond that?” I held up my hands.
“Oh,” she said, her face falling. “You want to leave?”
